


Acquiring the Taste of You

by LM_Artless (MariekoWest)



Category: Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Bondage, Gang Rape, Hardcore, M/M, Mildly Dark Psychological, Multi, NSFW, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, R18, UKFr/FrUK Hints, USUK (One-Sided), Uke Arthur Kirkland, Uke England, Watersports, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:59:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariekoWest/pseuds/LM_Artless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred knew his preferences clearly and they didn’t include irate drunk British men. Except when he decided to give in to curiosity and those deliciously red lips…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acquiring the Taste of You

**Author's Note:**

> Expect England to get f*d big time and America being as China would say– 'an ass'. Plus the ending is bad. You know like in video games, there's a good ending and a bad one? I wrote two versions, and this is the **bad** one. 
> 
> **Extra warning for good measure** : This is gothic-erotic. That means this contains underlying dark, disturbing, and pretty sick psychological elements. So it is definitely not for the squeamish who are just looking to read generic porn.

He never got drunk. Maybe because he never had a reason to. England however, was another story. He never needed any.

All America really wanted was a milkshake at the nearest golden arches. Or maybe his favourite smoothie, the one with lots of chocolate and whipped cream. His phone rang right before he stepped into his gastronomic wonderland and it was England sounding like he was in some kind of trouble. So being the hero that he is – runs over and makes the mistake of getting on that barstool beside him in the pub.

For the next couple of hours, all the older Nation did was drink himself stupid even more than he already was, and  _yak on and on_   _and on…_ about how much he wanted to shove his English boot up France’s all too annoyingly French ass. Of course everybody knew by now what a big fat hairy lie that was. Sure they wanted to shove something up each other’s ass, just not their boots. There was no news there; Just a lot of _history repeating itself._

America had been planning his escape, lazily eyeing the flickering red light of the backdoor exit which was nearer to where they were seated but still too far for assurance. He was willing to bet his erstwhile overseer wouldn’t even notice his absence; England being too caught up in a one-sided argument with his whiskey glass (which he looked like he was losing). Unfortunately, refilled beer mugs landing at intervals in front of him kept blocking his vision of the said exit, thus repeatedly disrupting his momentum. The bespectacled Nation took a long swig of the bubbling drink, lamenting his rotten luck.

If only he hadn’t taken a detour he would be home by now watching the latest  _hentai_  porn videos Japan lent him… Or playing the latest action-packed, “ _guaranteed blood, violence and gore!_ ” shooting game in his new video console (which he especially adored because he got to shoot a multitude of zombies without even once having to lift his ass off the seat)… There’d be a giganormous bowl of nachos overflowing with cheddar cheese on his lap and a half-gallon tumbler of fizzy ice-cold cola to go with it.  _Ahh, his little version of heaven…_  Of course he could always do with some chips as well; he was sure he had some leftovers stashed somewhere under the couch…

America sighed gloomily, already aching for that comfy worn out couch that cupped his ass so perfectly while he wolfed down all that yummy saturated fat– instead he was forced to endure England’s drunken droning. And in that insufferable British accent of his too,  _like he *owned the fucking language!_ Chock it up in his list of _‘things about the limey that was totally uncool’_. And also one of the reasons he wanted to get away from him so badly. That accent always made him feel stupid trying to sound like him all the time, stuck-up and pompous…

God knows how many hours into the monologue later and America was on the brink of freaking his pants off. He was still going around in circles about ‘France this and France that’, ‘frog face this and frog face that’. He never understood what the deal was with the two much older and supposedly more mature and “wiser” Nations. Everyone knew by now how badly they’ve always wanted each other (for whatever reason), so why don’t they just own up and fuck? _I mean, seriously, right?_  Did old Nations really love making their lives so darn complicated? They should have figured out and resolved their –what Japan and Hungary called: ‘ _unspent sexual tension_ ’, after  _forever_ … “It’s been a friggin’ thousand years!” America grumbled under his breath. “ _And they call me stupid…_ ”

England was now giving the bar counter a face-full, but amazingly, even having his face flattened didn’t slow down his whining one bit. America found himself being hit with wave after wave of unpleasant nostalgia. He’s had enough of these speeches and nagging during the time he lived under the Nation’s control, and now having to sit and watch how wasted (and so much more annoying) England was getting, was seriously stressing him out. He felt humiliated at even just the memory of being associated with him…

And yet, what a hopelessly vain flirt like France ever saw in England, was to him, one the universe’s greatest unsolved and longest running mysteries (also one he didn’t give a shit about).  _England was England after all_  and well,  _France was France_. They just acted the way they did since even before the universe began, why start trying to figure them out now? If two things that didn’t make sense to him were attracted to each other, then it should make perfect sense right? England was one of the most unappealing, most un-cute and most undesirable of all the Nations if he had to pick one and give them a “Yawnsville” Award. It was a wonder England could manage to hold France’s attention for so long. Heck, he didn’t even think France could fall in love with anyone other than his own reflection. And even if he just wanted to get inside the limey’s pants, America couldn’t fathom why he had to pick  _him_  of all people. Even if England turned out to be the “Nation of Amazing Sex” (an idea which made him choke), he still felt even  _that_  was not worth a thousand years of wooing, or putting up with England’s “charming” personality… or  _lack thereof_.

While it was a huge comfort that he knew and never had a doubt about his specific preference in gender (most certainly of the female species), he admitted this put him in a blind spot when it came to the males and couldn’t really tell which of them was a looker to whom even if he tried ( _not that he ever did_ ). The French fry however, openly declared his passion for ‘beautiful things’ regardless of gender. He called himself an ‘ _ass-teeth_ ’ or *‘ _punsexual_ ’  _or something–_  whatever that meant… Some girls from America’s fanclub explained to him that it simply meant that France’d pounce on a dog if he thought it was sexy enough (hell America thought  _cars were sexy_ , but he’s never had the urge to hump one), so maybe it shouldn’t come as much of a shock if a queer like France found  _whatever_  in England so “attractive”.

Just then England went into one of his pirate-style potty-mouth rants when the bartender refused to indulge him any further in his poison. America inwardly applauded the bartender’s courage, although he thought it would have been a better idea to have deprived England about an hour ago when he was still somewhat tolerable… At this point, even dogs were starting to look far more desirable.

“Hate tha’ frrooog sooo mucchh!” He caught the Nation sputter rather childishly, accidentally tipping over his empty glass.

America rubbed his stiff neck, “Yeah, and I am so  _fucking bored_.”

“Shwearrr when I get m’ hands on him I’ll—”

“Ohhh-kaay! Listen, dude! Got this ball game I wanna catch right about now so… y’know… I gotta go. Sorry can’t take y’home, too far a’ways, stuff I need t’do. D’ya want me to call France to take y’home?” This earned him a droopy (but still very unnerving) death glare. “Or~ maybe not.”

“C’n g’home myshelf thankyeerr verrry much!” England spat, withdrawing from the barstool and miscalculating the step completely, coming close to mopping the floor with his face in the process. Of course the hero’s lightning reflexes stopped any such unfortunate accident.

“Whoa, hey take it easy there, old man!”

“Leemmme go!!!” England swatted at his hands and America drew back, causing the Island Nation to fall flat into his chest.

America stood awkwardly for a few moments, thinking that maybe letting him fall on his face would’ve been more satisfying. When England did not resurface from the front of his jacket, he looked down and caught England dully staring up at him. America blushed self-consciously as the smaller Nation continued eyeing him intently as if he suddenly couldn’t remember who he was. It wasn’t just the staring, but the awkward position they were in that bothered him –how England’s face was practically nose to nose with his. It was these very cliché situations that were bound to make people get the wrong ideas… And yet as England peered up at him, he couldn’t help notice the bright flecks of gold in the eyes of his erstwhile governor; they seemed to twinkle faintly amidst the alcohol-fogged green haze… he’s never noticed it before.

America cleared his throat, trying to break the moment. “W-What?” was all he managed to utter as he looked away.

England gave a disdainful snort as he pushed himself off. “Nothing. Your eyes’re… differrheent…”

America laughed a hollow laugh. England was slurring incoherently at but he understood enough to bet they were still on the same topic. It wasn’t the first time he was duped into being pinch-hitter for the Frenchman in their fond little game of hide-and-seek… like every single time before, he loathed it.

He heaved the other off of him completely, intent on getting England home one way or the other. And whether the Island Nation ‘fancied’ the idea or not, he was calling France to do it. He never did learn how to cope with a disgruntled and very much drunk England, mainly because he didn’t want to. France on the other hand, was an expert at it by now. Besides, he wasn’t going to risk being seen carrying another man home. He was the hero after all, with a reputation to keep. He couldn’t have dubious rumors starting about his sexuality.

He reached into England’s breast pocket for his phone (he didn’t keep France’s number), but before he could press the ‘call’ button, the device is slapped out of his grasp by England – who was giving him another withered accusatory look.

“Hey!” America bellows unappreciatively. But just then, England swayed clumsily and once again stumbled into him. Caught off guard he almost loses his footing but manages to grab the edge of the bar for leverage. Before he could recover, however, he finds himself sandwiched between the counter and…  _England’s lips._

For a few moments, he was too shocked to move. Then England pulled himself off first, blinking dizzily.

“What the hell man?!” America shrieked freaking out of his innocent hero mind.

“Well ex’cuuussse you me! Were those your lipsss?!” says England with surprising clarity. “Now I know whut it’s like t’kiss a hamburger!”

“That’s it limey, time to go home!” America barked heatedly, roughly shoving England away. There was a distant ringing in his ears for some reason, but he chose to ignore it at the moment; He had to find that phone and get France,  _now_.

It took him a couple of minutes crawling around looking under tables (and getting kicked several times too) before he spotted the device. He finds France’s number on speed dial and hurriedly explains the ‘emergency’ to his answering machine, ending with a high-pitched, not too panicked ‘puuhhhleeaase  _come and get him!!!_ ’. Sighing in exasperation, he made his way back to the bar. If France doesn’t get his message soon enough, he’ll have to haul England’s drunken ass home himself, which he totally wasn’t up for; with his mind locked on to being reunited with his double burgers, fries, chips, candy bars and— you get the idea…

“Handssshh off, y’bloooody wwhankerrrs!!!” England’s voice rang out. America groaned as he followed the sound and saw where the Island Nation was.

For some reason (America certainly didn’t really think it was due to his ‘ _tiny_ ’ push), England appeared to have crashed into a nearby table, upturning it and its contents. The three men who were seated there didn’t look like they were taking it very well… They were holding up a very tipsy England, ogling at him hungrily as though he were a prized tuna they couldn’t wait to sink their teeth into.

“This one’s quite the catch eh?” One of them sniggered, tilting up the struggling Nation’s face for a closer inspection. “Tell ya’ whut. If you make it up ta us for spillin’ our drinks, we might think twice about smashing in that pretty face of yours!” All three men guffawed at that, tightening their hold.

England gasped and spluttered as a beer bottle’s remaining contents were tipped ceremoniously over his head. That didn’t help of course, as he was already sopping wet with what America guessed was beer. Hands were already over the Nation’s chest, tweaking the taut nubs there which stood out plainly through the soaked flimsy fabric. One had begun caressing his backside, giving it a loud slap.

England yelped, trying to kick at them as he spat curses, but he was much more easily overwhelmed in his drunken state. “G-Get offf you… aahh!” Strangled gasps followed as one of his nipples disappeared from view into one of the men’s mouths. Another hand had found its way to his groin and grabbed the growing bulge there, squeezing with gusto.

“Now, now, we don’t want to waste perfectly good beer do we boys?” one of them drawled suggestively and began to lick the dripping liquid off England’s neck, the others following suit wherever their tongues could reach, one of them finding the Nation’s mouth.

“S-Sto— mmpphh-aahh!”

America found himself gawking. One part of him knew he should jump in and save the day right about now, but the hero in him seemed to be just as dumbstruck as the rest of him; The rest of him that was glued to the spot horror-struck, not wanting any involvement. Of course, it was also largely due to the sudden intense heat mounting in the middle of his pants, telling him to enjoy the show. And he did, half amused and half horrified as the three burly men overpowered a very drunk and flustered England, hands roaming and squeezing everywhere.

He was finally snapped out of his moment of weakness at the sound of smashing glass. Despite being outnumbered and overpowered, England had managed to snag one of the beer bottles and swung it down at whoever’s head he could reach. It does the job, and the Nation crumples to the floor as the men release him. Though dazed and disorientated, England scrambles to his feet and swayed the now broken bottle at his aggressors, screaming at them to stay the fuck away.

“Okaaaay, looks like the hero wasn’t needed after all…” America muttered bewildered, letting out a low whistle. He had to admit he was impressed, he didn’t think England still had it in him.

There was a tense moment where they all held their breaths as the men looked like they were debating whether to take England in a fight or bring their companion with the now bleeding head to a hospital. America decided this was his best cue.

“Whoa hey fellas, I apologize for my brother! How about having another round on me and we’ll call it even? Only no more funny stuff okay? Great! Now that that’s settled! Go right back to knocking yourselves out!” He waves to them putting on his best Hollywood smile then hurriedly drags Arthur away before any of them could recover from their stupor.

America was about to dish out a scolding when England’s head pitched forward, hands flying up to clamp tightly over his mouth, as he lurched. Panicked, America quickly guides England to the men’s room before he spews his stomach contents all over the floor, _or worse—_  all over his precious leather jacket, which he prided for having preserved for the longest time being laundromat-free.

While England did his thing in one of the cubicles, America straightened himself and stepped out to try once again to get a hold of France. He sighed and opened the phone and waited. He didn’t know how the French Nation managed to handle England like this for so long, but he was the only one good at it and America wasn’t about to change that now. The ringing on the other end, however, was once again cut off by France’s answering machine and America had to stop himself from tearing his hair out in frustration.

“ _Fucking swell…_ ” he muttered before clearing his throat, “Hey man, it’s me again, so uh, you gonna pick up limey here or what? I’m missing my ball game!  Y’know how he is when he’s drunk. Besides, it’s you he really wants to… err, kill. And I hate to be in the way when he takes out his erm, ‘frustrations’ on me, he tends to do that, I think he’s doing this on purpose to get back at me for something… anyway, uhh… HELP?! I’m out on a limb here man. Come and get him now or I’ll go batty!” Then he hung up.

Growing up seeing his two male guardian Nations doing inappropriate things he wasn’t supposed to see was nothing short of traumatizing. It was enough to make him swear he would never be like them in any way if he could help it; He dreaded the idea of even just a speck of their European quirkiness rubbing off on him. If he didn’t absolutely necessarily need to be around them, he wouldn’t, and would rather stay far away. Now was one of those times.

Doing his best to ignore the tingling sensation in his lips and the faint lingering smell of tea leaves and rose petals on his jacket, he shook his head and steeled his guts. England was starting to get to him in more ways than one and that was yet another reason he wanted to get away from the man long before. Maybe it was the trauma of growing up around a pair of horny Europeans; or maybe it was all those “y _ou suck”_ _*_ _yawee_ comics that his fan club keeps shoving under his nose. Whatever the reason, he reminded himself that heroes didn’t question their sexuality or sexual preferences, and that male super heroes  _always_  had  _pretty busty blonde girlfriends_  and not drunken  _all-too-British-browed men_  as love interests. No,  _he was nothing like England or France._  He just didn’t swing that way… At that faithful reassurance, he began to feel like his usual heroic self again, so with renewed resolve he stepped back into the men’s comfort room to deal with his problem like a man. The moment he did however, he froze at the first thing that apprehended his vision.

No longer convulsing and hurling over the toilet, the Island Nation was now sprawled on the floor, leaning against the wall. His eyes were closed, and wet strands of golden blond hair were matted in all directions on his forehead. His already soaked and flimsy white dress shirt was now drenched and completely askew— evidently the result of a sloppy wash-up. Drops of moisture beaded down from the tips of his hair, to his face and his now exposed chest, making his skin shimmer with wetness. And for some reason, looking at him made the Super Nation feel hot and very, very thirsty.

America swallowed the huge lump forming in his throat. England slightly rolled his head to one side, revealing more of that pale and smooth expanse of neck, as if inviting him to sink his teeth in like in those vampire movies. He shook his head, mentally re-reciting his mantra from just moments ago. Maybe he needed a splash of water himself…

Stiffly maneuvering towards the tap, he hastily splashed the cold liquid on his face, adding to his mantra that the jerky limey was like an uncle to him, like a father… or an older brother –a much, much older brother… practically a great-great grand-brother in fact! Or, a cousin! That’s right, they were like cousins!  _Do cousins make out?_

“ _Geez, what the hell Alfred?!_ ” he chided himself. Glancing up, his eyes fall on England’s reflection in the mirror.

He couldn’t help but become transfixed by those shiny chapped lips, which were slightly ajar as slow steady pants escaped through and his outlined chest lifted and ebbed rhythmically with each breath. He suddenly remembered their brief connection minutes ago, to which his little man gave an enthusiastic twitch. America groaned.  _What the hell was he getting turned on for?!_  England couldn’t possibly be the cause, no way, that was just too weird!

He had always been a trifle curious – if he were to be completely honest with himself. He was always curious about the Frenchman’s obsession to get into England’s pants. Why despite being the so-called ‘Nation of Love’ who could have anyone he wanted, he always–  _always_  came back to  _boring little England_. He appeased that curiosity long ago with the idea that the French fry just had weird tastes and preferences; and maybe England was like a rare delicacy to him, right along the lines of baked snails and frog legs.  _Who in their right minds would prefer terribly bitter non-carbonated moldy grape juice over sweet bubbly, lively soda pop, right?_

Suddenly America was having a “flashback-athon” of all those times when he was younger, when he would accidentally walk in on France ambushing England, pinning him against the wall and, you know the rest… He was terrified at first, thinking the attack would get brutal, but then it escalated into something completely different. Like it was still a fight, only not like the kind he knew. When he came to understand what was truly going on, it only baffled him even more. Weren’t they supposed to be sworn enemies? So they hated each other because they really wanted each other? And what was it about each other that they liked so much anyway? More importantly, what was so irresistible about England? He really didn’t have a clue. Because until now, any kind of interest he’s ever had in the man had always been purely political and nothing more.

But his body seemed to know the answer that he didn’t, because the hardness in his pants throbbed in frenzied anticipation at each vivid memory. At every kiss England was forced to accept from France; every touch, every sound elicited from his lips, every desisting erotic expression, every futile resistance and fiercely given submission. It was like an avalanche tumbling down on his already upended brain. Maybe this was just one of those post-adolescent phases humans go through, that once the curiosity was quelled, the feelings and urges would leave him be… Thinking too much had never been America’s thing.

At some point his mind must have snapped, because he finds himself dragging England’s body to one of the stalls and propping him against a closed toilet seat. His entire body felt strangely detached as he was doing it, as if he was merely a spectator in a dream, watching someone who looked uncannily like him doing the deed. England only mildly stirs at the sudden movement, but his eyes stay shut and after a few moments, remained still, presumably asleep or too far gone to care…

The longer America stared at England’s sleeping face, the more unlike himself he felt. Everything around him ceased to exist, save for those shiny bruised and swollen lips; the delicate rose pink blotches flowing from under his closed heavy eyelashes tinting *usually pale cheeks. And just like that, he seemed to understand, that England— Arthur Kirkland, was  _indeed,_   _beautiful_ , even if every part of his rational self could not account for it.

He watched his dream-self close the cubicle door and turn to the unconscious Nation. His stomach started doing funny loops and twists as the idea of having England all to himself began to fully dawn upon him… His hands began to sweat profusely and the building heat in his groin intensified. He still couldn’t make sense of it, but somewhere between the sink and the toilet cubicle, he had stopped caring. For now, he was going to touch and have his way with  _Arthur Kirkland_.

And it seemed like the odds were working in his favor too, because England didn’t have a say in the matter. In fact in his current state, chances are he wouldn’t even remember a thing afterwards. ‘ _Besides,_ ’ A voice bleakly reasoned somewhere in his faraway mind, ‘ _France did this to him all the time… What difference would it make?’_

Feeling impatient he hastily connects their lips and moves against England’s pliant ones, slightly pulling back at the unexpected static the softest of contacts affected on him. It was different from minutes ago when the smaller man had initiated the kiss. The idea of being dominated by England again – in any way – was  _revolting_. Him being the one doing the dominating was only befitting, given that he was much stronger and more *superior to England in every way. Feeling more brazen, he dives in again, more purposeful this time, pressing his wider, manlier lips over England’s smaller and yet fuller ones. Closing his eyes, he realized that he could almost picture kissing a gorgeous busty blond instead of a grumpy and not so cute Englishman; His lips were not only shockingly soft and supple, but he also smelled nice – definitely not what he expected. Letting his fantasies take the lead, his kisses become more aggressive; wanting to feel a response from his partner. After a few experimental nips and sucks, he lets his tongue venture in-between and inside those unbelievably succulent lips; and instantly an intense warmth floods through his body from his mouth to his nipples all the way down to his abdomen and his loins, as though zapped by a powerful sexually charged electrical current. His tongue flicked around wilder and reached in deeper, tasting the bittersweet tang of tea, alcohol, and something else purely, uniquely England that he couldn’t quite place, but it was driving him over the edge, and he pressed on, wanting to taste more.

Angling England’s jaw against his, he pokes deeper into that cavern, seeking the unfamiliar but addictive taste and warmth. A weak moan of discomfort ensues from the subdued Nation, and America gasps, as the sound vibrates through his tongue to his lips, making him shiver; the pressure in his groin almost blinding now. He pulled back panting, not even realizing how long he had held his breath because he couldn’t get enough. It was crazy how aroused he was getting, and he blinked several times once his eyes had brought him back to the reality that it wasn’t a woman he was kissing but…  _England_.

But America wasn’t the type to over-analyze things, and at this point he was too aroused to care about anything else (besides thinking too much only made his head hurt). All he knew was that he wanted to feel and taste more of England; he wanted to penetrate and come deep inside him and make him scream. And he needed to do it fast— before his play time was up. Which was just about the time it would take for France to get his messages and make his way here from the hotel he was staying in; He didn’t know where that would be, but he was suddenly hoping that France wouldn’t get his messages any time soon…

With shaking hands, he roughly begins to tug open the unconscious Nation’s wet shirt to reveal more of his body. He reached out to touch it, to feel what that firm chest and smooth neck felt like against his calloused palms; not even remembering to feel queasy, having completely forgotten about the busty blonde bombshell he fantasized about if he was stuck with a partner he found unattractive. England’s body – he noted with a slight twitch of envy – was lean and well-toned, even if he wasn’t nearly as strong as he was. He clumsily runs his palms from England’s chiseled chest to the equally firm stomach, marveling at how despite the muscles, the skin was incredibly smooth and soft to touch; almost as delicate as a woman’s but not quite. He grazes his fingers over the dark nubs of the sleeping Nation’s chest, and plays with it. Twirling and pinching and kneading the tips to attention, and doubling his efforts when the Nation stirs feebly, letting out half-conscious disturbed moans – the noises were oddly enticing. America bends down and takes one nipple into his mouth and sucks  _hard_. He doesn’t stop until louder groans rumble through the chest pinned beneath him and a pair of hands push weakly at his shoulders. The act of overpowering the Nation he once so detested only heightened the pleasure he felt. Reaching down past the flat muscled abdomen, he tries to slip his hands inside the other’s pants, but finds the tight band too constricting. Impatiently, he undoes the buttons and his hands finally manage to fit inside the other’s underwear; he incessantly gropes and squeezes the semi-hard bulge there, desperately wanting to hear more of the smaller Nation’s sexual unease.

The thought that he had to get himself resolved quick before England’s not-so-erstwhile guardian arrived to pick him up made his hand pump more urgently until the Nation beneath him gave a strangled whimper; his head restlessly tossed back, though his eyes remained shut. All the while his mouth remained on the one nipple, fiercely sucking, until he felt a tug at his hair and his lips come off the swollen nub with a loud suction noise –  _but he wasn’t done yet_. With his other hand, he busied his index finger and thumb over the other neglected nipple, the rest of his attention raptly absorbed in England’s face and incoherent utterances. Deftly, he takes out England’s Big Ben and squeezes just below the head while pressing and rubbing his thumb in circles none too gently over the glistening slit.

“C’mon c’mon c’mon…!” America muttered as he began a furious pumping rhythm in time with his abuse of England’s nipple. By now the Nation beneath him was writhing albeit weakly, soft stifled moans and half-sobs escaping his panting lips, while beads of sweat glowed on his flushed skin and perfect navel. There were some misplaced scars here and there, but the marred flesh only seemed to accentuate England’s body even more… the same body he now lusted for like molten hot lava in his veins.

Suddenly America was acting out France’s “supposed” part in the equation. Suddenly, he wanted what France wanted; and he vaguely wondered in the back of his muddled mind if this was what the Frenchman saw and felt every time he took England. But France had his way with England lots of times when England was  _fully aware_.  _And responsive_. This situation seemed a far cry from what his two former guardians shared, and he knew it. He might have felt envious for a moment, but he quickly dismissed the notion. It was too late to start growing a conscience now.

England could not fully open his eyes, too delirious sliding between drunkenness and being so urgently aroused that he could only roll his head from side to side in protest; His arms and fingers blindly pushing at the owner of the hands touching him, as his breathing hitched and strangled through his parched throat; sensual uninhibited moans slipping past his lips more fervently now beyond his volition, unwittingly urging his partner on. But despite the lack of strength and coordination, he still managed to put up too much resistance for America’s liking. So the young super Nation grudgingly abandons his ministrations to bind England’s wrists and arms above him with his own belt, securing the bindings at a large hook conveniently situated right above the English Nation’s head; then he blindfolds England’s already half-lidded unseeing eyes with his necktie. The now bound Nation’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp upon realizing that he was restrained even further and unable to fidget as much anymore. His head jerked back and his legs trembled harder when America pulls off his pants and everything else out of the way, and resumes driving him to the edge, reduced to almost inaudible pleadings and whimpers as he is pumped and fondled incessantly.

After what seemed like ages, America is finally satisfied at England’s proud hardness and twitching hips. His hands relent so that he could survey his handiwork, and he couldn’t stop from gaping at how huge his ex-conqueror was when fully erect, unbelievably much bigger than him, given the smaller Nation’s relatively lesser mass and strength. Several beads of sweat collided on the way down his face off his chin, and he swallowed nervously as he gauged that England was thicker and at least an inch bigger than he was. He was completely bowled over, and a great deal embarrassed though he would never admit it of course. He faintly recalled having so antagonizingly taunted England at that time of his victory…

‘ _You used to be so big._ ’

And now… it just seemed the most awkwardly inappropriate thing to say in hindsight. Okay, so he figured he still had some “growing” to do, but that wasn’t about to stop him from getting back at the jerky limey for making him miss the rerun of his much-awaited ball game…  _oh no._

America braced himself. He had never done it before with another man, but he had seen it enough times before to get a pretty good clue as to how to go about it. He positioned himself over England, who was panting softly, beads of sweat trickling down the tip of his finely-shaped nose; cheeks flushed brightly and his eyebrows scrunched up together in discomfort. America’s own rock-hard discomfort was screaming for attention. Without waiting any longer, he unzips his pants, pulls it low and straddles the trembling Nation before him, his own body sweating and shaking in excitement. He reaches out to England’s jeans which he had thrown aside and feels the pockets for a bottle of lube he knew would be there. One of France’s favorite pranks was giving England a pocket-size bottle of lotion as a gift every now and then, telling him it’s best to ‘always be prepared’. He would’ve laughed dryly at the irony of it, but he wasn’t much for irony and sarcasm so he didn’t. Sloppily and almost absentmindedly in haste, he coats his own hardness with it, then pours a copious amount into his fingers before pushing three digits all at once into the other Nation’s opening, earning him a hiss of pain and a sharp jerk of hips. When he feels he has done the job, he checks his watch to see how much time he had left. Already fifteen minutes have elapsed, but still no response from the French Nation. Nevertheless, he had to do it fast, and that wasn’t a problem for a super hero like him – a super speed quickie it is then.

Without further foreplay, he guides the tip of his length to the other’s opening and shoves all the way in. England is pushed back by the force of the thrust; a shocked cry escapes him, tears springing to his eyes at the pain of the sudden brute intrusion. America takes a few moments to steady himself, groaning sharply as his mind reeled from the intense tight heat suddenly enveloping him, trying to blink away the dizzy white spots from his vision. He had never felt anything quite like it, and his body ached to feel more. America begins to move; slowly withdrawing and then slamming back in, trying to recapture the jolts of ecstasy. When he’s adjusted to the movement, he grabs firmly onto the smaller Nation’s hips, pulls out completely and then rams back in all the way to the hilt, hitting a spot inside England this time that makes him utter a sound that he never imagined in his wildest, most twisted dreams could sound so erotic on a man’s lips that he is sure it will haunt him many nights to come and send chills up his spine and right down his modest Florida.  _He would make sure it did._  Thighs and stomach already shaking more violently from so much want, he takes a deep breath to steady himself, and hastily pushes up his already fogged-up eye-glasses; then bracing himself, begins to pound into that maddening tight heat over and over again, with escalating speed and force, until England’s lips are hanging open, loud needy moans and whimpers spilling forth from that suddenly oh-so-heavenly mouth.

Suddenly his whole being was now focused on this creature before him; one he could no longer reconcile with the England he knew. It’s like the man was magically transformed into some ethereal, sensual being; and those cries and furiously blushing cheeks will now forever have a different meaning to him… Now panting heavy shallow breaths from the effort of his powerful frenzied thrusts; his sweat dripping onto England’s perfectly splayed body making the man’s pale flesh glisten even more; he felt smug and triumphant, knowing that he had marked England inside-out. And in a sick, perverted way, it was also the perfect revenge for all those times he had tried to control him.

Since he had already given in to temptation and sin, there was nothing else left but to make the most of it. He leans down over a nipple and sucks on it angrily, his hands moving around to England’s backside and splaying the flesh there farther apart to allow himself to be impaled even deeper and harder. England’s back arches up precariously, the hook where the belt binding his hands were snagged onto creaked loudly with each violent push and pull, as America sucked and bit; and rode England faster and harder, pushing both their bodies to the limit. 

By now England’s muffled sobs were echoing off the walls of the enclosed space, magnified in America’s mind, driving him closer and faster to the edge. England’s body was like a vacuum, drawing him in deeper and deeper, wiping his mind clean of everything else. England screamed as he bit down hard on a nipple, moaning through gritted teeth as the Island Nation’s delicious heat involuntarily squeezes around his pulsating length greedily. America grabs the other’s ignored erection in one hand and wedging his thumb firmly into the slit effectively blocking any more pre-come from oozing out, starts teasing and kneading deeply into it in rapid circular motions. He wanted to break England so badly; wanted to fuck him so hard that he would call out his name in that sensuous voice and insufferably stuck-up accent of his; He wanted to feel England engulf and squeeze around him again with all his might… He wanted to fill him to the brim, he was so close now…

And after a few more relentless pounding into that swollen twitching prostate, America’s vision whites out and his mouth falls ajar in a soundless gasp as the coiling tension in his core explodes, filling England with his seed in powerful bursts after another. All the while pinning the helpless Nation immobile against the cramp chamber seat, leaving him to shudder and whimper beneath him to be filled against his will; his own come spurting out and oozing in-between his blocked slit and America’s thumb. The young Super Nation releases unbelievably long and hard feeling the tension and adrenaline slowly being drained away with his orgasm. His arms and knees tremble at the powerful spams that rack his body as his climax subsides, his rigidly thrust posture eventually collapses, utterly spent and spineless and he lets his body fall and drape over the bound Nation beneath him. So exhausted was he that with a shiver, he is unable to stop himself from releasing a second round of far less desirable fluids deep into the already come-filled opening, not having any more strength left to withdraw his member still firmly sheathed inside.

“Shit.” America mutters still unable to gather the strength to move at all. He could do nothing but lie there and wait for his second unpleasantly wet release to be over. A few more tiny spasms later, he has completely emptied himself into England and he groans in discomfort under his breath as he feels his own hot liquids overflowing from the abused, now lax and very wet hole. He forces himself with much effort to pull out and hisses uncomfortably, as the sensation of just slipping out was already making his Florida twitch again. America checks his watch and squints a bit closer, almost laughing out loud in disbelief seeing that the whole fuck only took a little over five minutes! He wondered if he would have been able to pull off the stunt if England had been awake.

But England wasn’t awake and it didn’t seem like he was going to regain any sense for a while. America lamented his chances of getting to fuck the Nation under normal circumstances and knew it was close to zero to none. France still hadn’t returned his calls, nor left him any messages; which only meant that he wasn’t making his way here yet. But at any rate, he couldn’t afford to let himself get caught. He knew France hated England, but he also knew he secretly wanted England all to himself. There was no way of predicting how France would react to the idea that he just ‘violated’ England, but even he cringed at the thought. It wasn’t that he was afraid of France or England, but more of what others would think of him. Heroes don’t go around taking advantage of others, even if it is a man, and his father-figure, err—  _great grand cousin_ , to boot. The hero’s reputation can’t be tarnished. The world just won’t be able to handle that.  _He_  won’t be able to handle that. He had to think of something and fast!

The signs were all over England, it would not take a genius to tell he had been raped, but still, he could probably get out of it if he could pin the blame on someone else. Yeah, that’s exactly what he needed, someone to take the blame. All he needed was to find  _someone really, really drunk_ …  _like those drunken perverts just a while back…_

Again it appeared that luck was on his side, for as soon as America had cleaned himself up and dressed, he got his wish. A group of men lumbered into the men’s room just as he stepped out to find his targets. He stole a glance at their faces and his eyes widened in shock when he recognized that they weren’t just a bunch of random drunken men,  _but the very same trio of drunken perverts he was looking for!_  They walked past him laughing and slurring in loud voices, hardly even noticing him walk past towards the exit. America quickly ducked into the cubicle nearest the door, and with great satisfaction he observed that they instantly noticed what he’d hoped they’d notice.

England lying there naked, still tied up and blindfolded with his long pale legs still far apart, lips and nipples swollen; All in all, a nicely wrapped bundle too sinful to resist. Any man in their right mind would be swayed to sin by such a feast,  _what chances did a bunch of drunken perverts have?_  Through the mirror’s reflection he could see everything as it was about to happen. The three of the men closed in on England like a pack of hungry wolves stumbling upon an injured deer. They crowded into the cubicle without even bothering to close the door, one of them wastes no time in pushing the Nation’s thighs even farther apart to accommodate his member which was rapidly growing to attention at the sight. As America watched the man begin to finger his former caretaker, he caught sight of his own pants growing oddly distended in the groin area as well, and inwardly groaned; It looked like he would have to ‘help himself’ this time as he watched the show from where he was.

Still slick and dripping with his assortment of fluids, England’s opening had no trouble swallowing the first man’s turgid erection as the other two lifted him up and propped him on top so that he was sitting on the first man’s lap as he is straddled from behind. The other busied himself fondling England’s balls and now flaccid member, while the third one began stroking his chest as one straddling him moved his hips. England jolts awake at the combined sensations of being groped and penetrated yet again, only this time he realizes that there is more than one man coming onto him. It also seemed like he was a little sober now because he stutters and struggles more vehemently, although still not up to his usual energy, but he couldn’t really do much with his wrists and arms still wrapped tightly with the belt, and his eyes still covered. Before a yell could escape his lips however, one of the men’s jaws clamp over his, squeezing his cheeks tightly and forcing his mouth open to give him a tongue-ful, effectively muffling the noises fighting to escape from it. England’s whole body shudders when the man fondling his nether regions takes his now semi-hardness into his mouth, and the one with his dick up his ass starts thrusting very forcefully, making England bounce. The scene nearly drives America to climax, and he gingerly eases himself on, pressing his other hand firmly over his own mouth to keep any noises from spilling and giving him away; he couldn’t afford to ruin his plans of framing them, not when it was going so well.

With all three men stimulating him at once, it didn’t take long for England to come again. His swollen, bleeding lips quivered as he let loose a half-moan half-sob just as the man tonguing him relents to watch his body tremble from his powerful orgasm. America could tell that the one inside him came shortly after from the way his hips convulsed; England slumped back, too exhausted and drained to struggle any further, as the rest took their turns spilling their seed inside him. When they are through, they hastily pull up their pants and take a few moments to leer at him a bit more, thanking him for the ‘free fuck’ with sloppy would-be kisses. They leave him in a crumpled heap on the ground, out cold, and in a pool of come, sweat and urine.

America had released for the second time (not counting the involuntary one), gathering enough wits to duck behind the shadow of the cubicle door to avoid being seen as the men left. Still disoriented and flummoxed about what just happened, he lazily wipes the come off his hands on the walls and strides over to where England was, trying to decide what to do.  _He would tell France that he let England out of his sight for a few minutes to make an important call and returned to find him in this state with no idea of who the culprits were._  Yeah, that sounded believable enough. Besides he didn’t want for any of this to happen, it was all England’s fault to begin with. All he ever wanted that night was to be at home watching his ball game and scarfing down snacks like he always did. Then England had to come around and seduce him, so it wasn’t really his fault at all. Okay, so heroes don’t lie… but if he asked Tony to erase his memory of it, then it would no longer be a lie. He would forget any of this ever happened, everything would go back to normal and his reputation would be safe.

That is, until France finally calls and apologizes for being late because he was held up by a traffic accident, informing him that it would take an hour before he can come to pick up England. And America doesn’t understand why he says it’s fine, that he’ll be taking England home for now since he already missed his ball game anyway. He still had to get payback for missing his snack at Mickey D’s, his video game time and  _hentai_  videos. Maybe forcing England to swallow half a gallon of soda pop down his other end would prove to be just as entertaining… If he was going to forget everything he might as well make the most of it. He could always ask Tony to erase England’s memory of it too afterwards. Nothing a few hamburgers couldn’t pay for.

Yes, that would work… right?

Perhaps he was more drunk than he thought.

 **The End**  (?)

**Author's Note:**

> * America mispronounces yaoi as “yawee” as I’ve heard most American fans say it, and some from our country too. But he cannot for the life of him pronounce Japanese words properly so… (naturally I'm not referring to ALL Americans in general.)
> 
> *Saw a book written by some self-proclaimed “voice of ALL the American people” fruit cake, who really has it in for the British. His book was all about how “evil” they were and how the British ruined the world yadda-yadda and shit. He even complained about how the British speak English like they owned and invented the f*n language and I'm like… is this guy for real??! (*_*)
> 
> *He means “aesthete and pansexual”. America has no idea what France said and completely mishears it.
> 
> *I actually don’t think England’s cheeks are pale, the British men I’ve seen have a nice rosy glow that I really like. But this is America’s POV so…
> 
> *About America being superior to England. Obviously America’s opinion and not my own.
> 
> So sorry, I won't stand for complains since I did give fair warning at the beginning. I mean, if you didn’t want to read one-sided USUK smut, why did you ignore that and keep reading? Besides this was for FrUK fans who have a severe England-uke kink, like myself. *cough -pervert- cough*.
> 
> America is sort of whacked, bordering bipolar here (that’s America for me). When I write rape, it's mainly because I want to show how desirable Arthur can be without really trying. Yes. My obsession for him breaks all barriers. As that line from “Dorian Gray” goes: ‘only the sacred things are worth touching’ -- or something like that... (Or maybe I should just come clean and say that I am a shameless perv obsessed with Arthur?!) 
> 
> Either way, this is also my "sublimated" way of retaliating at those stories portraying beloved France-sama as a moronic, blundering raepist (just so they could have a bad guy in the whole "damsel in distress - hero to the rescue" formula so often used in err- some fics I've read. At least I tried to build a story around it and didn't make America too stupid (more than what's already given)... Of course this is also just a dumb excuse to write porn. xD
> 
> Lastly, I did a major overhaul with this when I realized I had mistakenly posted the raw version of this fic. Sorry! I was so aghast I wanted to just take it down completely, but... I didn’t. (^ ^) Unfortunately for y’all.
> 
> * * *
> 
> (10/21/2012 - 01/31/2013)
> 
> * * *
> 
> **My Dragon Ball Z & Other Works**: [MariekoWest](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MariekoWest/pseuds/MariekoWest) {AO3} / [MewrSaidTheCat](https://www.fanfiction.net/~mewrsaidthecat) {FFnet}  
>  **Works Archive:** [M(☆)W: The Asteroid E2-13](http://mariexfolie.blog.fc2.com) {fc2}


End file.
